The Willies
by Keye Goodenough
Summary: Pip has a story to tell. Pippin, Merry, Frodo, Samwise. No sex or profanity. Wee bit of hobbit cuddling.


"It's true, I tell you."

"Pippin."

Frodo suppressed a chuckle and kept himself out of it. Pip gave Merry an indignant look and said he'd heard it from cousin Jerard himself.

Merry laughed. "Jerard's never told a story, has he?"

Pippin answered him with deadly earnest. "You weren't there, Merry. You didn't see the look in his eyes or hear the way his voice got all shivery. It really happened."

Merry dismissed the whole thing with a loud harrumph and gave his attention to savouring the last morsel of cherry crumble on his plate. Pippin crossed his arms and pouted.

Frodo thoughtfully regarded them both. Sam was fidgeting beside him, itching to get up and clear the table. But there was no need of haste, nothing that had to be done that very minute. The mugs were filled and the tapers fresh. A warm fire crackled in the grate. Pippin wasn't going to let it rest for long. Frodo smiled to himself. "All right, Pip, I think you'd better tell it again, from the beginning."

Merry looked up at him incredulously. "Dear lord, Frodo, don't encourage him."

Pippin beamed. "Hush, Merry. Frodo wants to hear about it."

Frodo heard Sam sigh and offered him an apologetic look. Pippin took no notice, determined to have his say. The lad leaned forward so his face was eerily lit by a flickering of candlelight and, in a hushed voice, began his tale.

"It's late on the last night of Samhain and Jerard's driving his pony cart home from Pincup all alone. It's damp and chill, he says, with a rolling mist in the low places, and he's got a creeping up the back of his neck that won't ease for all he tells himself there's no cause. And the wind's moaning in the wood like it does sometimes out there, only he's thinking it sounds more like voices than he's ever heard. He should turn around and go back, he thinks, but he's more than half way home by now so on he goes with his nerves twitching, through Weeping Hollow and past that old, dead oak tree throwing twisted shadows across the road, and he's just coming down on the bridge when he sees a strange, drifting light ahead across the water. It's not a warm, comfy light either, not from lamp or fire. It's a cold, wan, hazy thing, this light."

Frodo met Merry's eyes across the table and couldn't fail to see that he was sincerely disturbed. Sam uneasily shifted beside him, eyes on Pip, probably believing every word. Frodo reached over and laid a hand over Sam's where it rested on his knee. Sam darted him a glance that was surely meant to be reassuring, and twined fingers with his.

Pip went on, his voice beginning to rise in obvious excitement. "Jerard fairly jumps out of his skin, thinking it's a banshee he sees. Everyone knows you can't outrun a banshee, not even with a pony. But he can't run anyway because it's put a spell on him and he's already doomed. All he can do is keep on, clattering over the bridge right for it… " Pippin paused for dramatic effect. "And all of a sudden the light's just a lass in a party frock, glowing in the moon shine.

"Jerard's so relieved he almost laughs, until he sees this lass is drenched and freezing. So he pulls up quick and jumps down to wrap his coat around her. Her skin is like ice and her hair is dripping wet. She's shivering so hard she can't even speak at first. Jerard gets to thinking some scoundrel must have driven her out there and left her. He's never seen her before, but she's ever so grateful and she lets him hold and warm her until she can catch her breath. Then she tells him in a tiny whisper that her name is Mari and she has to get home.

"When Jerard asks her where her home is, she just points ahead the way he was going, toward Tuckborough. So he helps her into the cart and drives on with her. She doesn't say much, and only looks addled when he asks her what happened and where it is she lives. He talks to her anyway, trying to cheer her up, because she's sad and pretty, and Jerard always did have a soft heart for the lasses. But she just sits there beside him, wrapped up in his coat, with her hair dripping and the stars in her eyes."

Frodo slid a last little way along the bench and snuggled up against Sam, who willingly embraced and clung to him. Merry snorted, trying to maintain a skeptical demeanor.

Pippin ignored him. "Jerard thinks he should take her home with him, where his mum can take care of her until she's over her shock. He's about to say so when she gets all fretful and begs him to stop, and there's something in her voice that makes him heed her. He reins in the pony and stops the cart, and before he knows what's happening, she's down and running off into the woods. Jerard doesn't even think about it. He just jumps down and goes after her.

"There's a full moon but it's dark under the trees and thick with fog. He calls out her name, Mari, but it's muffled on the heavy air. All he can hear is a sighing all around him and a sound of water… drip… drip… drip. He stumbles over a great rock in his path and goes sprawling up against another, and his groping fingers find rough, hewn, inscribed stone. He's in a graveyard!"

A delicious shiver ran up Frodo's spine and Sam's strong arms tightened around him. Merry sat tensely hugging himself.

Pippin was positively gleeful. "Enough is enough, Jerard thinks, and gets himself away from there, leaving the poor lass to her fate. But he can't stop thinking of her, all the rest of the way home, and in his dreams when he finally falls into bed. So he goes back out there in the chill, gray morning, and he finds this graveyard he didn't even know was there. It's old and neglected, just a little clearing in the wood with a scattering of worn markers. And there's his coat draped over one of them. His heart's in his throat, but he knew, didn't he? He takes up his coat and hugs it to him. Engraved on the stone, it reads Marigold Chubb, 1311."

For long seconds not a word was said or a sound made, until Pippin leaned back with a satisfied smile and raised his mug. Frodo was all for congratulating the lad on a tale well told, but neither Sam nor Merry seemed even slightly amused. Dear Sam was all but shaking. Frodo wrapped both arms across his in loving commiseration.

Merry straightened himself with a scowl. "It's nothing but a bucket of lies and you know it, Pip." As if to prove he wasn't affected in the least, he casually reached for the last of the minced pork filled pasties.

Pippin leaned close to him. "Do you know what else I heard, Merry? Aunt Ida was having supper with the Bracegirdles and she bit into a mince bun and found a rat tail inside."

Merry eyed the pastry in his hand with a squeamish frown, and put it back on the plate.

Frodo laughed. Sam bristled. "Here now, there's nowt wrong with my buns."

Pippin gave Sam a wink, and snatched the dainty for himself, grinning. "Silly Merry, it's only a story."


End file.
